Chapter 12: The Core
The transition from the restrained silence of Madame Malkin's shop to the chaotic interior of the Leaky Cauldron was abrupt. The moment the Lhaerys family crossed the threshold of the famous London inn, they were swallowed by a jumble of voices, hearth smoke, and the scent of warm drinks.
The effect was immediate.
The constant clatter of tankards against wood and overlapping conversations faltered, as if a vital note had been torn from the establishment's melody. Heads turned almost in unison. The Lhaerys family did not need to announce their presence; it imposed itself.
Their aristocratic bearing was unmistakable. Impeccably tailored garments stood in sharp contrast to the inn's casual atmosphere, and their silver hair—too pale to be common and too luminous to be ignored—caught the flickering candlelight like polished metal. It was evident that this lineage did not belong to the isles.
Whispers began to slither between tables, moving from ear to ear like restless serpents.
"Who are they?" murmured a weary-looking wizard, leaning toward his companion while adjusting his crooked spectacles.
"They're not English," the other replied quietly. "Just look at them."
In a more secluded corner of the inn, where the noise dared less intrusion, a small group of scholars in dark robes observed with restrained attention. One of them paled slightly upon recognizing the man at the head of the group.
"That's Maeric Lhaerys," he whispered, almost reluctantly. "The potion master from the continent."
"The same one?" another asked, tension threading his voice.
"The very same. They say his formulas are as precise as they are lethal."
A third leaned in closer, as though afraid of being overheard.
"He's the one who invented that potion using dragon blood, isn't he?"
The first nodded slowly.
"He is. A masterpiece, from what they say."
There was a brief pause before another comment surfaced, laden with curiosity.
"If I'm not mistaken, they're from Romania, aren't they?"
"Originally," someone replied in a low voice. "An ancient lineage. Very ancient — at least, that's what they say."
Maeric did not react to the stares or murmurs. His face remained impassive, almost carved from marble, as he moved through the hall with steady strides. He approached the counter without hesitation. The exchange with the innkeeper was brief, objective, stripped of any unnecessary cordiality. A curt nod sealed the understanding.
To Maeric, the Leaky Cauldron was nothing more than a waypoint—an unavoidable stop on the road to destinations of greater consequence.
He gathered his family before the great stone fireplace, silently discouraging the curiosity of bolder patrons with a single gesture. From within his coat, he withdrew a small vial of Floo powder. Its contents shimmered with an intense emerald hue, reflecting in his violet eyes as he finally spoke.
"Hogsmeade. The Blood Tear."
Green flames surged up around them, spinning with enough force to tear the world from beneath their feet.
When they emerged, the environment was entirely different.
The shop exuded a somber, almost reverential sophistication. The Blood Tear was not merely a jeweler's—it was a declared enclave of House Vharanor on British soil. Display cases showcased pieces cut with near-ritual precision: rings, necklaces, and brooches that seemed to carry ancient histories within every facet.
Lyra moved through the interior with a quiet, attentive gaze, absorbing details with measured curiosity, while Aelarion lingered a few steps behind the group, leaning on his cane, surveying the space with slow, seasoned appraisal. His eyes lingered on the discreet runes etched into the corners of the display cases, recognizing techniques older even than the modern rise of the Vharanor name.
At the center of the shop, isolated within its own display, rested the jewel that gave the establishment its name: the Blood Tear. Its red was deep, intense—almost alive—as though it pulsed faintly beneath its polished surface. Crafted through ancestral techniques of House Vharanor, the jewel had grown increasingly popular in the magical world, especially among those who understood—or wished to understand—its true value.
Aelarion regarded the gem a moment longer than the others, eyes narrowed, as one who recognizes something both beautiful and dangerous in equal measure. Lyra, for her part, tilted her head slightly, intrigued, but did not step closer.
Behind the counter, a young man with Valyrian features observed their arrival with impeccable posture. He belonged to a secondary branch of House Vharanor, yet carried the dignity of one trained to represent an ancient name.
Upon identifying Maeric, Serena, and the distinctive composition of the group, he bowed respectfully.
"Lord Maeric, Lady Serena," he said with measured, rehearsed courtesy. His gaze passed over Lyra and Aelarion with silent deference before returning to Maeric. "Lord Kaelan informed us of your arrival. It is an honor to receive you at our branch."
Maeric responded with a brief nod. The greetings were swift, almost overly formal for an encounter between ancient families. There was no interest in negotiations or prolonged conversation. The purpose of the visit lay elsewhere.
Without pausing before the displays, Maeric headed straight for the shop's fireplace—a refined structure discreetly reinforced with additional enchantments. That hearth was part of a private Floo Network connection, linked directly to a Lhaerys establishment in magical Germany.
The family assembled once more before the flames.
"Next stop," Maeric announced as Floo powder slipped from his fingers with calculated precision. "Haus des Drachen."
Green flames rose again, ready to carry them beyond British borders.
The exit from the Floo Network at Haus des Drachen revealed a vast, meticulously organized environment, where the scent of ancient parchment mingled with the metallic tang of magical artifacts. The space was far larger within than the exterior suggested, sustained by old enchantments that kept shelves suspended and corridors perfectly ordered. Discreet runic symbols were carved into the walls, pulsing softly at regular intervals.
As the green flames fully dissipated, a broad-shouldered man approached with firm steps, leaving behind a table where he had been examining sealed documents. His smile appeared before he spoke—open and genuine.
Eckhart Festmann assessed the group swiftly. His respect was immediate upon recognizing Maeric at the forefront, but his gaze also lingered on Serena, whose commanding presence required no introduction. Just behind them, Lyra maintained an elegant, quiet posture, carefully observing the surroundings, while old Aelarion Lhaerys leaned lightly on his cane, eyes sharp and attentive, as though nothing escaped his notice.
"Maeric! My old friend!"
Eckhart Festmann lacked the ethereal elegance typical of Valyrians, as well as the cold demeanor that often accompanied them. His presence was solid, grounded—marked by a rustic dignity forged through years of labor and steadfast loyalty.
To Daemyr and Vaenyra's immediate surprise, Maeric accepted the greeting without hesitation. The handshake was firm, accompanied by a brief incline of the head and something exceedingly rare: a genuine spark of camaraderie in his eyes. Daemyr caught Vaenyra's eye for a brief moment. It was the first time they had seen their father show such fraternity toward someone without Valyrian blood.
The friendship between the two men dated back to their days at Durmstrang, when rivalry and ambition mingled less carefully. The Festmanns were an old German family, respected for longevity but long considered simplistic in influence and ambition. It had been Maeric who, only a few years after graduation, recognized strategic value in that simple loyalty and offered Eckhart—then heir to the family—a formal vassalage agreement.
With the rise of the Lhaerys on the continent—who claimed themselves an ancient pure-blood family and whose presence grew increasingly rare beyond Maeric—the loyalty of the Festmanns had been rewarded. Invitations, respect, and relevance followed, and the growing influence of sworn families inevitably reflected upon them. Eckhart knew this. And he was grateful for it.
"Eckhart, I see the shop continues to prosper under your care," Maeric said, resuming part of his usual composure, though his tone remained less frigid than normal.
"Thanks to your trust, Maeric. My father's health isn't what it once was," Eckhart replied, lowering his voice slightly. "But he still asks about you whenever he can."
He then turned toward the rest of the group, bowing respectfully to Serena, Lyra, and Aelarion before directing a focused gaze at the siblings.
"And these must be the famed Daemyr and Vaenyra. I hear they're heading to the Isles. A clever move—expanding influence northward."
Daemyr caught the restrained pride in Eckhart's voice, while Vaenyra noticed how their father did not deny the observation. To Eckhart, the decision made perfect sense. House Lhaerys was already well known on the continent, but not yet as influential in the British Isles. It appeared to be another calculated move in a larger game.
The conversation continued briefly. Eckhart mentioned that his own son was about to begin his third year at Durmstrang and spoke of the challenges of magical education there. There were restrained laughs, short remarks, and a discreet exchange of looks between Maeric and Eckhart—men who did not need to voice everything aloud.
When the dialogue began to wane, Maeric made a nearly imperceptible gesture, signaling it was time to leave.
Before heading to the exit, he walked to a side table and picked up a reinforced leather case marked with subtle magical seals. Eckhart cast a quick glance at it, recognizing it. The case had arrived days earlier, delivered with precise instructions. Maeric offered no explanation, made no comment, and answered no curious looks. He merely held it firmly, as though its weight were not physical, but symbolic.
The doors of Haus des Drachen opened.
And Hexenwinkel revealed itself.
The principal commercial district of the German magical world, in Munich, was a spectacle of contrasts. Narrow alleys appeared dark, laden with ancient, heavy magic, while shopfronts gleamed with hypnotic brilliance, reflecting enchantments, pulsing crystals, and artifacts of uncertain provenance. Twisted towers rose above the buildings, and floating lights crossed the air in irregular patterns.
Daemyr and Vaenyra paused for a moment, absorbing it all. Lyra stepped closer to them, sharing the same attentive gaze, though more restrained. Aelarion observed the movement with critical interest, silently comparing the marketplace to older versions he had known in his youth.
Maeric and Serena, meanwhile, advanced with confident strides, guiding the group with the ease of those who knew every route.
As they walked through the crowd, the conversation returned to the Vharanor shop in Hogsmeade. Serena spoke first, her smile edged with controlled irony.
"It's curious how the Blood Tear has regained so much relevance. An old Vharanor jewel, sold for decades in New Valyria and the main Romanian magical seat, now a craze among the French aristocracy… and now the Isles as well."
Lyra nodded slightly. "Especially after Rhaella Vharanor began frequenting the right circles at Beauxbatons."
"Exactly," Serena continued. "A remarkable coincidence that its popularity exploded just as she forged ties with the daughters of France's most influential families."
Aelarion let out a low, approving grunt. "Nothing spreads faster than the elite's desire to imitate one another."
Maeric nodded, his analytical gaze sweeping the street.
"Lord Kaelan has always been a master of opportunity. He lacks the raw power our lineage carries, but in terms of cunning, ambition, self-control, efficiency, and awareness of his position, he is nearly impeccable. Had he possessed meaningful magical potential, the Vharanor might have risen much higher."
He paused briefly before adding:
"And his daughter, despite her gentle appearance, seems to have fully inherited that talent for social navigation. More magical strength than her father—but still insufficient."
Amid discussions of politics, influence, and magical potential, the group slowed before a discreet façade. There were no flashy ornaments or elaborate displays, yet a dense aura of technical authority emanated from it, enough to silence nearby conversations and deter the curious.
They had arrived at the wand workshop of Yaroslav Gregorovich.
The interior of Yaroslav Gregorovich's workshop was a sanctuary of ancient silence, saturated with magical dust and accumulated knowledge spanning generations. Dark wooden shelves rose until they vanished into the vaulted ceiling's shadows, crammed with thousands of rectangular boxes, each sealed, numbered, and heavy with latent potential. There was a sense of something alive within the space, as though the wands themselves waited patiently to be awakened.
The air was dense—not oppressive, but alert.
From the back of the workshop, among tables covered with fine tools and yellowed parchments, Yaroslav Gregorovich emerged. His white hair was disheveled, as though time itself had never been a concern, and his pale eyes gleamed with an almost restless intensity, typical of those who had devoted their lives to understanding forces few dared to touch.
The moment his gaze met Maeric's, something shifted.
A flicker of recognition crossed his face before he spoke.
"Lord Maeric Lhaerys," Gregorovich said, his hoarse voice echoing softly through the space. "I still remember your wand."
He stepped closer, studying Maeric as though seeing him for the first time—and yet as though he had always known him.
"A distinctive combination," he continued. "And a core that, at the time, defied even my understanding."
Maeric allowed himself a restrained smile, rare and quietly satisfied. There was no vanity in it—only certainty.
"Your memory remains sharp, Yaroslav," he replied. "But today, I'm not here for myself."
He gestured discreetly toward the children.
"My children require wands. And I knew that only a craftsman with your vision could understand what they require."
Gregorovich's eyes moved immediately to Daemyr and Vaenyra. He did not smile at once; he observed—posture, presence, breathing. Only then did a slow, genuine smile appear—the smile of someone who recognized a worthy challenge.
"Praise from you is not something I take lightly," he said. "Very well. Let us begin."
The process began with near-surgical precision. Enchanted measuring tapes slid of their own accord, gauging arms, height, shoulder width, distance between the eyes, wrists, even breathing rhythm. Gregorovich murmured notes to himself while Aelarion watched in absolute silence and Lyra followed every detail with focused attention.
At last, the craftsman guided the twins to a large central table, where dozens of blocks of raw wood were laid out in perfect order.
"Touch them," Gregorovich instructed. "Do not think. Feel the call of the grain."
Daemyr extended his hand first. His fingers passed over several surfaces without response until, upon touching a block of vine wood, a gentle warmth spread across his palm. It was neither intense nor overwhelming—simply firm and steady, enough to make him stop instinctively, aware that the choice had not been random.
Almost simultaneously, Vaenyra felt something different. Upon touching a block of ebony, a cool, direct energy traveled up her arm. There was no resistance or strangeness—only a silent presence asserting itself naturally. Vaenyra kept her hand where it was, feeling the connection settle without need for words.
Gregorovich watched their reactions with absolute focus, eyes gleaming.
"Vine and Ebony," he murmured, nodding slowly. "Powerful choices."
He turned toward the shelves of cores, already extending a hand.
"Now, let us see which cores from my collection offer the necessary compatibility for—"
"Wait."
Maeric's voice cut through the air with precision, stopping Gregorovich before he could move further.
The craftsman turned slowly, curiosity igniting in his gaze.
Maeric stepped forward and set the reinforced leather case upon the central counter. The dry sound of impact echoed through the silent workshop. Without another word, he undid the clasps and lifted the lid.
Inside, wrapped in complex preservation enchantments, rested a single crystal container. Within it, perfectly preserved, lay a portion of muscular fiber taken from a dragon's heart. The matter pulsed with a subtle residual energy—barely perceptible, yet dense enough to disturb the surrounding air.
Daemyr felt a shiver run up his spine. Vaenyra held her breath.
"The core will not come from your collection, Yaroslav," Maeric said, his voice low and steady. "It will come from this particular dragon."
For a moment, Gregorovich did not reply. He stepped closer, eyes fixed on the container's contents. His expression shifted as he analyzed the fiber's structure, magical density, and the energy pattern it emitted.
Something did not fit.
He had seen, worked with, and cataloged dragon cores from countless origins. This, however, corresponded to no species he knew.
Just as it had years before.
Gregorovich lifted his gaze to Maeric, a spark of recognition crossing his expression.
"It's the same kind," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "Just like the core of your wand."
Maeric neither confirmed nor denied it. He merely held the craftsman's gaze.
Gregorovich returned his attention to the container, now wearing a slow, restrained smile—one born not of excitement, but of absolute respect.
"Fibers from a single dragon heart," he continued quietly. "More than sufficient for two wands… if handled correctly."
The silence that followed was dense, heavy with anticipation.
There, in that ancient workshop, they were not merely creating magical instruments known as wands.
They were about to create something the wizarding world had no knowledge yet to understand.